Monster
by Enimsaja Snape
Summary: "I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed get along with the voices inside of my head.You're trying to save me,stop holding your breath.""I'm beginning to lose sleep""Cause the very thing I love's killing me and I cant conquer it.""I'm just relaying what the voice in my head's n't shoot the messenger."Not a songfic, but I feel like the lyrics fit. Hurt/Comfort, OOC
1. Chapter 1

**Monster**

**Chapter 1**

**AN: My very first Sherlock story! The idea to me while I was listening to Eminem's "Monster," and that's where the title came from, but this isn't really a songfic.**

**It will be pretty OOC, but you'll see why.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to BBC and ACD.**

**Enjoy!**

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Sherlock buttoned the last button of his purple shirt before pulling on his coat and trying his scarf around his thin neck. He looked in the mirror and sighed. His strange-colored eyes were tired. His dark curls fell limply across his forehead. He was not prepared for this today, but he knew it had to be done. As much as he was dreading this, he was thankful to Mycroft. None of this would have been possible without him and his "minor position in the British Government."

The disapproving-looking woman behind him cleared her throat. He gave his hair a half-hearted ruffle before following her out of the room. The ride in the lift was silent.

Following the woman out of the lift and down the hall, Sherlock tucked his trembling hands into his coat pockets. He put on a blank mask as they came to a stop at room 331. He could hear terrified screams coming from behind the door punctuated with the occasional sob. Neither he nor the woman batted an eye. She pulled a card from her pocket and swiped it before opening the door and allowing Sherlock to enter the room.

The sight that met his tired blue-green-grey eyes broke his heart no matter how many times he had witnessed it. The room was mostly empty, save from a chest of drawers, a bed and the man perched on the bed. The man wore a wrinkled pair of plain blue and white pajamas. His big brown eyes were red and wide with fear. His dark hair looked as though someone had rubbed a balloon over it. He was curled up in the corner of the bed sobbing and begging someone to "make it stop." On the chest sat a tray with two cups, one filled with water, the other with three pills. Two blue, one orange.

It was obvious that this wasn't new to Sherlock as he grabbed the pills and the water before sitting down on the bed.

"James." That one word made the distraught man immediately quiet.

"Sh-sherlock," he whimpered, "M-make them stop. Please, make it stop." Tears streamed from his eyes, and mucus dripped from his nose. He looked nothing like the man he was before.

"Take these and it'll stop," Sherlock said holding out the pills.

"What are they?" James demanded.

"They'll make it stop. They'll make it all stop. I promise."

Sniffling and trembling, James grabbed the pills and shoved them all into his mouth. Sherlock knew it probably wasn't good for him to take them all at once like that, but no one cared as long as he took them. He pushed the cup of water into his hand before he could swallow them dry.

Once the water was gone, Sherlock placed the cup back on the tray and grabbed a tissue from the box on the chest.

"Let me clean your face." He frowned at how quickly the medication took effect. The brown-eyed man was as docile as a lamb as he scooted forward and allowed the other to wipe the tears and mucus from his face.

"Blow," Sherlock instructed, holding a clean tissue to the smaller male's nose. The sound was disgusting as he complied.

The curly-haired make tossed the used tissues on the tray before turning back to the docile man.

"Sherlock?" The voice was hesitant and child-like. A far cry from how it used to be.

"Hm?" The pajama-clad man inched forward until he was pressed against his companion's side

"Th-they don't like me here," he whispered, "They…they hate me. They say things…awful things…I know they're talking about me."

"They're all idiots, love. They're just jealous of how brilliant you are," Sherlock murmured, slipping around the trembling form.

The former consulting criminal continued to tremble for a moment before springing back to look up at the curly-haired man.

"I drew you a picture of me," he said, scrambling off the bed and going over to the chest.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice the way the pajamas hung off of his thin frame. He always seemed bigger, taller in suits. Westwood. Now he looked like a child drowning in those pajamas. He was digging around in the bottom drawer. He grinned in triumph as he pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper. He clambered back onto the bed, tucking his feet underneath him and held out the paper proudly. The taller man almost smiled at the drawing that was presented to him. A man, Jim, clad in a grey suit sat on a bright red thrown. A matching crown sat perched on his head. There was a large grin on his face.

"I'm King Moriarty," Jim said, grinning.

"Does that make me your queen?" Sherlock murmured.

"Hmm, yes! You're **my **Queen Sherlock, and that means that you can't ever leave me, okay?" The words were spoken lightly, but there was a desperate gleam in those brown eyes.

"Of course," Sherlock said, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Jim sighed in contentment and shuffled closer to the other man.

"Has Seb come to visit you?" Sherlock asked, running his long fingers through messy hair.

"No," came the quiet response, "he hates me."

"Why would he hate you, Jim?"

"Cause I'm in here. He hates me for being here."

"I'm sure he doesn't. It's not your fault that you're in here."

"Then why won't he come see me?"

"I-I don't know."

Anything else that might have been said was interrupted by the door opening and the disapproving woman standing there expectantly.

"Jim? I have to go now, okay?" Sherlock said softly.

"I don't want you to go," the smaller male whimpered.

"I know, but I'll come back soon."

"Promise?"

"I promise." He detangled himself from the other man's grip and kissed his forehead before standing. "Promise me you'll try to behave?" he said, running his hand through messy hair once more.

"Promise," Jim whispered, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.

The moment Sherlock followed the woman out of the room, his mask fell. He looked even more tired than before, and his strange eyes were filled with pain. The ride in the lift was once again silent.

Arriving at room 221, the woman swiped her card and opened the door before holding her hand out expectantly.

Sherlock stepped inside of the room and stripped down to his underpants, not bothering to hand the clothing to the woman. He grabbed the rumpled pajama bottoms and t-shirt from the bed and pulled them on. He pulled a worn blue dressing gown on over it before collapsing onto the bed. He vaguely registered a bracelet being re-wrapped around his wrist before the door shut, leaving him alone in a room almost identical to the one upstairs.

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Please review and let me know what you guys think! Like I said, this is my first attempt at a Sherlock fic, so I'm super nervous about it. I'm not sure how long this is going to be, but I'll try to update soon.

**ES**


	2. Chapter 2

**Monster**

**Chapter 2**

**AN: This chapter should explain everything. Also, I didn't say it in the first chapter, but I believe this counts as AU. It's definitely not canon. Also, season three never happened in this story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It belongs to BBC and ACD.**

**Enjoy!**

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No one was pleased with the sudden change between Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty. John Watson and Mycroft Holmes in particular. Everyone knew and understood, to a point, that Sherlock was intrigued by the "games" that Moriarty played with him. It kept him from going mad with boredom. It kept him from driving John mad when he was without a case. It kept Mycroft and Lestrade from worrying about him falling into old habits. But the desire to avoid boredom soon turned to pleasure. Suddenly, there was a happy gleam in his eyes whenever Moriarty was involved.

Then suddenly, the "game" seemed as though it was over. No more cases that led straight to Moriarty. No more puzzles created just to make Sherlock "dance." No more puzzles for him to figure out. But the strangest part of all was that Sherlock didn't seem too upset about it. He didn't sulk around in his dressing gown. He didn't shoot the wall out of boredom. He didn't seem to believe that Moriarty was just biding his time before he did something big. It was as though Jim Moriarty and the mess he had caused ceased to exist. This didn't give John any relief. Something didn't seem right. Something was wrong. It couldn't be over that easily. It couldn't be that simple.

He was proven right one day, several months into their Moriarty-less period, when he walked into the flat and found the consulting detective and consulting criminal curled up on the sofa kissing lazily. Jim had his fingers tangled in the taller man's messy curls. Sherlock had his long arms around the smaller man's body, which was clad in the detective's infamous purple shirt.

"What that…Bloody hell, Sherlock, what's going on here?" John's voice went up an octave in his shock.

Startled, Jim pulled away from the kiss and fell to the floor. Sherlock stood, graceful as ever, and helped him up.

"It's obvious what's going on, John, even to you. We were kissing, but then you interrupted. I'm beginning to understand why it bothers you so much when I interrupt you and your girlfriends."

"I know that you were kissing. I saw that. What I want to know is why?"

"Jim's a good kisser."

Said man giggled at this.

"Sherlock, you know what I mean."

"Maybe, I should go, love," Jim said, grabbing his shirt from Sherlock's armchair, "We'll continue later."

"Love? Are you two serious? What the hell is going on?" John demanded. The doctor's hands clenched by his sides.

Sherlock took his shirt from Jim and slipped it on, not bothering to button it up. He waited until Jim was dressed and gone, with a kiss goodbye, before turning back to his flat mate and friend.

"Sit down, John, and I will explain," he said, taking a seat in his chair and crossing his legs. Somehow, he still managed to look almost regal with his unbuttoned shirt, rumpled hair, and bare feet.

John perched on the edge of his own chair, back ramrod straight, his hands still clenched into fists. What explanation could his flat mate possibly have for what he had walked in on? He stared expectantly.

"Jim has changed, John."

John didn't know whether to snort or scoff.

"You can't be serious."

"I know it seems foolish and naïve of me to believe this, but if it was not true, surely I'd be the first to realize it. I'm too clever to be fooled even by Jim Moriarty."

"I can't deny your cleverness, but how could Moriarty suddenly change? What could possibly make him change?"

Sherlock was surprised to feel his face heat up slightly.

"Me," he said, flushing lightly.

"You can't be serious, Sherlock. Jim Moriarty, the world's only consulting criminal, just decides to give up crime and murder and manipulation because he's in love? I don't buy it, and I can't believe you've fallen for this. I thought you were above sentiment and emotion. What happened to you being married to your work?"

"I was certain that that was the case, but it makes sense that Jim would be the exception. Even you must see it, John. We're so similar. Our minds…He's the only person in the entire world who even remotely understands me. All of my life, people have been telling me to be normal, try to form a meaningful relationship, and I've finally done it. So John, I'm asking you, as my one and only friend to be happy for me."

John Watson stared at his best friend in shock. This was all said in the consulting detective's usual rapid deducting tone, but John could see the emotion in those multi-colored eyes. Fear, excitement, happiness, pain, desperation. He had finally found "normal" happiness. He had finally found someone who understood him and the way he thought. And he was so terrified that it was going to be taken away from him. The former army doctor sighed.

"Sherlock…you are not normal. You've probably never been normal, and you will probably never be normal. Tell me that this thing with Moriarty is not your attempt at becoming "normal." Tell me that, and I promise to drop this whole thing."

"It's not."

"Alright then." With that, John got up and headed into the kitchen to make some tea. He still didn't trust Moriarty, but he trusted Sherlock.

Mycroft's reaction wasn't any better. He scoffed at his brother's giving into sentiment and his naivety. But he also demanded to know how John could have allowed it to happen.

"Despite what you think, I'm not his bloody keeper," John had said angrily, "He's a grown man, and he's going to do what he wants, and this is what he wants. I'm not saying I suddenly trust Moriarty because I don't, but I do trust Sherlock. He's happy, and he's not hurt, so all I can do is make sure he stays that way, which I will."

Lestrade's reaction was pretty much the same as John's and Mycroft's response. Though John was slightly miffed at being expected to take responsibility for Sherlock and his actions, he did feel responsible for the consulting detective and whatever happened to him. It was his unofficial job to keep him safe.

Jim Moriarty's sudden change had everyone on edge. What no one knew was that Jim truly did love Sherlock. They really were alike. They were both clever geniuses who despised being bored. They just had different ways of dealing with their boredom. But out of love for the consulting detective, Jim truly did try to give up his "method" of dealing with boredom. He tried to work on "the side of the angels." He helped solve crimes instead of committing them, and he was extremely useful. Like everyone else, Lestrade was wary and suspicious of Moriarty's motives, but he couldn't deny that Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes working together were a force to reckoned with.

But, of course, no good thing ever lasts. Sherlock and Jim had been together for almost a year when he started to notice a change in Jim's behavior. He was moody and distant. He would lash out at Sherlock often. His mood was always worse right after they had solved a case. While Sherlock, and John if he remembered to invite him along, was on an adrenaline high, Jim was already itching for more. For once, Sherlock failed to see. Solving cases was starting not to be enough for Jim. He was feeling less and less stimulated. At times, he felt like his mind was unraveling. He needed more. So many times, he was tempted to go back to his "methods" of dealing with boredom, but he didn't. Or, at least, not at first.

He knew about Sherlock's previous drug problem. He remembered how he said it stimulated his mind and gave him so much clarity.

The first time Jim did cocaine, he nearly overdosed. His older brother, Sebastian, found him the next morning in the bath tub surrounded by the smell of vomit. He told his brother it was food poisoning and made sure not to make the same mistake twice.

The first time Jim did cocaine intravenously instead of snorting it, he almost broke up with Sherlock. Instead, he decided to go back to being a consulting criminal in secret. This worked for a while, but as he began to use more and more, the less it helped.

Under the influence of more than half of what he usually used, he created Richard Brook, a new consulting criminal, and nearly ruined Sherlock's career. It was the biggest high of his life. When he came down, he found himself standing on the roof of St. Bart's with Sherlock observing him.

"You've been doing drugs for three months, three weeks, and two days. You've been a consulting criminal again for two months, three weeks, and two days. You have an undiagnosed mood disorder among other things. And I've been an utter imbecile."

"You're so clever," Jim said, grinning, "so so clever."

"And yet so stupid. I honestly believed you had changed."

"Oh, don't be too hard on yourself. I did change for a while, but being good is just so boring. I do regret not being good enough for you though. I don't like being this way, you know."

Sherlock saw a desperate gleam in his large, dark brown eyes, which made him panic just a little. The dark pupils were so enlarged; he couldn't even see the whites of his eyes.

"You could try something else. Anything else," he said, taking a step closer to him.

"I've tried, and nothing works. Even after all of this, I'm already growing tired of this. It's only a matter of time before the boredom becomes so bad that the only way to relieve it will be to do something that I'll hate myself for."

"Jim…" For the first time in maybe forever, Sherlock was at a loss for words.

"There's nothing left to say, love," Jim said, taking a step back. He was only a step away from the edge.

"Jim please…"

Before he could utter another word, Jim took that final step to end his own life. But what he didn't know was that in his drugged state, he had stood on the wrong side of the roof. So instead of plummeting to his death right in front of Barts, he fell into a half-empty skip, critically injuring himself.

Sherlock, though, didn't find this out until hours later when Mycroft had to retrieve him from his nearly-catatonic state on the roof. The elder Holmes had to physically restrain him to stop him from lunging himself off of the room. It wasn't until the older man shouted that Moriarty hadn't died that Sherlock stopped his attempts. He immediately demanded to see Jim. By then, Moriarty had been brought inside and treated and was comatose. Mycroft was reluctant to use his minor position in the British government to allow Sherlock access to Jim, so only his brother, Sebastian, was allowed in the room. Sherlock threw a fit, not unlike the temper tantrums he used to throw as a child, and Mycroft finally relented.

Moriarty didn't look any different aside from the bandaged wrapped around his head. An outside observer might think he was just sleeping.

Sherlock demanded to be allowed to stay with him until he regained consciousness, but no one was willing to allow it. At his wits end with his younger brother, Mycroft called John and had him take Sherlock home, where the detective proceeded to lock himself in his bedroom for the entire three weeks that it took for Jim to regain consciousness.

It became clear that it would be necessary to allow Sherlock to see Jim when the man woke up screaming the detective's name and refusing to be calmed. No one could deny that Jim Moriarty really had changed this time. The moment Sherlock stepped into the hospital room, Jim launched himself into his arms, sobbing and whimpering like a child. Brain damage on top of whatever undiagnosed mental issues had been suffering from before changed Jim Moriarty more than anything else could. No longer the man he used to be, instead of being sent to jail, he was sent to a mental hospital. The best in London with the help of Mycroft Holmes. On the condition that Sherlock get help as well. Sherlock of course refused at first. He didn't think he needed help. He didn't see what everyone else saw. His eating and sleeping habits were even worse than before. He was obviously traumatized after seeing his boyfriend jump to his death, even though he didn't actually die. And Mycroft wasn't certain that he wouldn't make his way back up to that rooftop. And Mycroft was certain that his younger brother was close to going back to his old ways. So eventually, Sherlock agreed to get help on the condition that Jim never found out. And with Mycroft's "minor position in the British government," he made it happen.

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**This chapter's a lot longer than the first…I think. I hope it answered all of your questions. Sorry if the ending seemed rushed and/or awful. I really wanted to get this chapter out. I'm usually terrible at updating stories, so I wanted to get this chapter up while I was "in the zone." I hope you enjoyed it! Please review! Even if you didn't enjoy it, review anyway! **


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